


How vastly we improve our style

by RogueBelle



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen, Internal Monologue, Rating: PG13, Speculation, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-10
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 03:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueBelle/pseuds/RogueBelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In desperate straits, Regina turns to make a deal with a man she already fooled once, a man who has nothing but reason to hate her -- but can Jefferson be taken in again? 1x21 from Jefferson's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Deal

**Author's Note:**

> Watch as I shamelessly rationalise this episode in favour of my new OTP. ;D I recognise that this is pure speculation, but, since Jefferson's demeanour changes entirely before and after Emma's name, I figured there was room to play.
> 
> Disclaimer: All dialogue from the TV show is obviously not my own, and I lay no claim to it.

Jefferson feels like a thread ready to snap when he enters Regina's house -- not a home, no place this precise and designed and unfriendly could ever be someone's home, it's just an art installation where people happen to live -- not terribly unlike his own echo-haunted mansion. She looks at ease, though, as cool and polished as the chrome surroundings, in contrast to Jefferson, who's channeling all of the nervous energy shattering his veins into his left hand, flicking the damned card over and over.

"Jefferson. So you got my message."

Message, or threat? The only reason Jefferson responded so quickly is because he can't be sure, and the very idea that Grace might be in danger freezes the blood in his veins. Not being with her has been a torment, but at least she's been safe, and happy, and well-cared for -- and all of that is so much more important than his own contentment. The idea that Regina could be drawing her out of that protective shell both terrifies and infuriates Jefferson. "How could I miss it?" he asks, struggling to force out the words. "You know I watch her." Knows he does, and set him up to do so from the first day he woke up in this strange place, with all those telescopes so strategically, viciously pointed, just waiting for him to succumb to the temptation to look through.

Regina strolls around the room as carelessly confident as ever -- and as casually cruel. "It must be so painful, your daughter Paige being so near—"

"Grace," Jefferson bites off rapidly. "Her name is Grace, you should know that, you changed it." It burns, to still be under this woman's control, after so long, to know that she can still crook a finger and send his life into chaos. And he's definitely not in the mood for her cat-and-mouse games. "What do you want?" As though this were a social call, she starts pouring whiskey into a pair of crystal glasses.

She cocks her head up slightly, feigning artlessness; but this is a woman to whom guile comes as naturally as breathing, and no words from her mouth, no matter how plainly couched, can be trusted. "Your help."

The indignation of it threatens to erupt inside of him. He can feel the fury rising, welling up like bile in his throat, sharp and sour. He knows he's trembling, knows that's hardly the most impressive stance to take against an Evil Queen, but it's rage far more than fear that tightens the muscles in his arms until they shake. The arrogance of it, the way she flaunts her security, to invite in and ask the help of someone with so much cause to hate her -- less than some, perhaps, but more than they know. "And what makes you think I won't kill you after everything you've done?" He can barely work the words past his clenched jaw.

"Because you don't have it in you. If you did, you would've done it twenty-eight years ago when I brought you here." It's almost a shame to him, but she's right; Jefferson has been many things in many worlds, but a killer isn't one of them. "Because you know, if I'm dead, you'll never get back to your daughter. And I have a way for us to both get what we want."

Jefferson lets a beat pass, staring icy daggers at her. Slowly, not trusting his muscles not to defy him and do something desperate, like throttling her, he drops the card in the glass she's proffering him.

Regina looks at the card for a moment, unamused. Giving up on the pleasant approach, she brushes past him, setting down one of the glasses. She pulls something out from behind a couch: something entirely out of place in this mausoleum of porcelain and chrome. A box of brown leather, and Jefferson can't conceal his shock at seeing it – _his_ box, his hatbox, something he never would have expected to find here in Storybrooke.

Regina thumps it decisively down on a table of frosted glass and steps back, that vicious feline smile cutting across her face. So pleased with herself, always, this cunning queen, so impressed with her own cleverness, but for the moment, Jefferson hardly sees her, his focus drawn to the box like iron filing to a magnet.

The draw is impossible to resist. "My hat," says aloud, as though confirming this is real and not another warped dream. With a mixture of affection and deepest loathing, he strokes the worn leather covering, so familiar beneath his fingertips. He flips the box open and knows, this is no trick -- that is _his_ hat, plain and black and fraying at the brim. And he doesn't know how to feel about that. It won't work, not here, but if there were ever a chance – this hat has a better one than any of the dozens stocked neatly away in his house.

He catches a whiff of sharp perfume, floral and fermented and jarringly different from the musty, earthy scent of the leather hatbox. Regina, stepping into his space, entirely too close, and Jefferson flinches away from her. She can't be trusted at all, but certainly not within arm's reach. His motion is instinctive and ungraceful, not nearly as careless and confident as he would like to be around her. She sees it, sees his panic and his inability to control it, and the expression on her face shifts subtly, almost asking what he's afraid of.

In what he's sure she means to be a reassuring tone, Regina says, "I want you to use it again."

"I can't make it work." Words he's said a few thousand times, words he'd be glad never to taste on his tongue again. "No one can. Not here, not without magic."

"Well then you're in luck, because I happen to have some." Smug condescension writes itself on her face. With a delicate touch, she lifts the hat from its box; Jefferson's fingers twitch, almost ready to yank it away from her. It isn't merely possessiveness -- though it is that as well, and there's something tremendously unnerving about watching someone else handle the hat, like coming home and finding a stranger asleep in your bed -- but more than that, no one else should touch that hat, powerful and treacherous as it is. "Not a lot. But hopefully enough for one last journey."

She presents the hat to him like a gift, holding it so lightly – and he can't help it, the damn thing is part of him, calling out to him. And so, attracted and repulsed in an instant, he asks, "Where?"

"Back to our land, where there's a solution to a very delicate problem I have." A new note in her voice, truly eager, cracking a bit at the edges. Almost, if Jefferson could trust his instincts, genuine. She nudges the hat against his chest, fixing him with a solid stare. "How to get rid of the one person who can break my curse."

" _Emma_." The relief of it lifts an enormous weight from his chest, and before he can stop it, a grin breaks out on his face. Nothing Regina could have said would have set Jefferson's mind more at ease, because if there's anyone in this town with the capacity to foil Regina's plotting, it's Emma Swan. If she had threatened anyone else, Jefferson would be worried; if Regina pitches herself openly against Emma, he knows who's going to walk away. The grin fades as quickly as it flashed out, cynicism reasserting itself. What _is_ Regina playing at? Why would she draw him this far into her confidence, when he has everything to gain from Emma's success? "And why shouldn't I let her do just that? End the madness and go home?"

And then she makes her next misstep; she must be getting desperate. With a dismissive sniff, Regina drawls, "To your _hovel_? Selling fungus at the fair?" She turns from him, setting the hat back in its protective case. "Why? When you could just stay here, in the mansion I gave you." He keeps his expression carefully neutral, can't give away the game -- but he wants to laugh, wants to cry her foolishness out to the heavens.

Because Jefferson's had a lot of time to think -- trapped in Wonderland, before all the little fractures became too much to bear, and trapped here in Storybrooke, agonizingly left alone with his own thoughts -- a lot of time to think, and a lot of time to regret. He hears, faintly, in the back of his head, _'All I need is you, Papa,'_ and he knows she was right, that he should have listened to his little girl then. She might deserve furs and jewels and every nice thing, but that hovel was all they _needed_ , if they'd stayed in it together.

And so he does his best to look phenomenally unimpressed, shoving his hands defiantly in his pockets. He's almost disappointed in her. She's plucked this heartstring before; she ought to know it won't sing for her a second time.

When she steps inside his boundaries again, putting her hand on his shoulder and circling behind him, he manages not to flinch this time. He's more certain, now, that she only used Grace to get his attention, that she means his daughter no harm – and so there's less to fear. Whatever she has planned for him is a pittance next to that. He can feel his terror, his rage, bleeding out of him; this is easier ground to tread.

"My problem, Jefferson, is the same as yours." She pauses, taking a deep breath, and when she speaks again, voice breaking, Jefferson could _almost_ believe she means what she says. "It's family. We both want our children back, and we both can get them, if we work together."

Almost convincing, but it's another grievous misstep for Regina; that little boy with a dead king's name is Emma's family, not Regina's. Jefferson knows about family. He knows about the holes that tear open in your heart, and he knows how to see them in others. Whatever Emma was feigning before she clocked him with that telescope, her love for her kid wasn't part of the act.

"Why should I trust you now?" He doesn't, he won't, he couldn't -- but he wants to know what she'll say.

"You shouldn't. But it's the only offer you've got." His jaw twitches; that's not so much a statement as a threat. Regina doesn't let go once she's decided someone's going to help her. "After we're through, I'll wake up your dear Grace so she remembers who you are."

"No." That tears out of him unbidden. And then he exhales in a little huff; she doesn't get it, couldn't. Any capacity she might once have had to feel this sort of pain was surely burnt out of her long ago. "Remembering is the worst curse. Two lives in her head, like me?" Like Regina, too, but as the curse's author, she seems immune to the torture of it. "I want to forget." That much, at least, is true, but Jefferson pushes it further. If he wants to see what she's aiming for, what her endgame is, then she'll have to believe she has him. She has to believe he's taking the bait. "I want you to write us a new story, a fresh start. Here."

And it works. She gets that gratified little smile, her winning smile, and promises him, "Well, my dear Jefferson, then that's exactly what you'll have." Doubtful; the Queen, to the best of his knowledge, has never come through on a deal in her life. There's a power in bargaining, but it isn't hers; _that_ well is someone else's to draw from. Regina's power is in betrayal, in deceit, in promising and not paying. Jefferson knows that better than anyone. She double-crossed him once, all innocence; he has no intention of being so taken again. But of course she'd believe he'd ask for such a foolish boon – for a reward he would, if granted, never know that he'd received. 

Jefferson's had a lot of time to think, after all. A lot of time to play, over and over again in his head, what happened the last time. A lot of time to think how it could've gone differently. A lot of time to dwell on revenge.

"Oh," Regina adds, almost casually. " _After_ we take care of Miss Swan."

Something prickles at the back of Jefferson's mind, arcane and half-forgotten knowledge surfacing. Regina seems to go out of her way not to call Emma by her first name. He turns his head to look at her, slowly, wondering why.

Jefferson can't see the way out. He doesn't know what Regina's planning, except that he's sure she's not giving him all of the story. He doesn't know if he _can_ untangle the web, because even in dire straits, she's still better at this than him, than anyone, well-practiced in her malice. And deceit has a powerful advantage over the inherently honest; they rarely anticipate its sudden strikes. But he believes in Emma, and if she's somehow backed Regina into this corner, forced to action, that's all the more reason to trust in her ability to slip the snare. And maybe, just maybe, with the faintest frays of Regina's desperation beginning to show, he can learn enough to be of some help.

  
  
_"Oh what a tangled web we weave  
When first we practice to deceive;  
But once we've practiced quite a while,  
How vastly we improve our style"  
\--Sir Walter Scott  & J. R. Pope_   
  



	2. One Last Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1x21 from Jefferson’s POV, cont’d: Reviving a hat, retrieving an apple, reaching for redemption.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As before, pure self-indulgent speculation; dialogue from the show obvsly does not belong to me.

The vault Regina leads him to is underground, and Jefferson doesn't like that, doesn't like feeling trapped. And yet – it smells familiar. It takes him a moment to realise that it smells like _home_. Somehow, down here, the smells of the Earth he's been living in for the last twenty-eight years fade away – all the pollution and synthetic chemicals, the tang of asphalt, the flatness of rubber and plastic, the haze of gasoline – the things he'd grown so used to that he no longer notices them – down here, they hardly exist. This place smells like ancient stone and moss, like leather and dust and, yes, magic. Not much of it – like the lingering scent that remains when a woman wearing perfume has left the room – but it is there.

Jefferson watches Regina carefully as she pulls some items out of cubbyholes cut into the wall, wondering, gauging how much power she truly does still have access to. The answer becomes apparently fairly quickly – not much. The first trinkets she offers have no effect on the hat whatsoever.

And then she pulls out a ring from her pocket, and as she rolls it between her fingers, the center glows. A man's face appears amidst the shine. Jefferson's eyes widen slightly, feeling the hairs on the back of his hands prick up: magic, real magic, here, in this world – what he's been after, desperate for, for so long.

But he swallows his avarice, and asks, as flatly as he can manage, "Who's that?" Actual curiosity has less to do with it than wondering what chink in Regina's armour this might represent.

She's certainly too canny to give much away in regard to _that_ vulnerability, however. "Someone long gone."

"Well, whatever or whoever it is, it still has magical properties. Give me that, and I'll see what I can do with it." And she hesitates, reluctant to let go of the ring – or reluctant to part with whatever long-suppressed memories are attached to it. The delay is astonishing, from someone as brisk and decisive as Regina. But Jefferson presses her, taking a chance and plucking on the same heartstrings she's so effectively used against him. "If you want your son back, if you want your revenge, give it to me."

If she's willing to sacrifice that, something she evidently – against all expectations – cares about, not to mention what seems to be the last bit of magic in this world… then Jefferson knows a few things. One is that she must truly be desperate. Another is that she certainly doesn't have enough magic left to hold up her end of the bargain.

A long moment passes. Then, she points for him to put the hat down. And that, too, tells Jefferson something – she's behaving as warily of him as he is of her. Something has shaken that monolithic confidence of hers – something is cracking. Jefferson wonders how much to risk, how much to push.

True anguish writes itself on her face as she lets the ring fall from between her fingers. The hat responds to it, stirring feebly, with the faintest wisps of purple smoke spiraling out from within. Jefferson frowns; he can _feel_ it trying to work, stretching, yearning, like a child reaching for a toy placed on a too-high shelf. The hat wants to work – but there isn't enough power.

He glances over at Regina, who is realising that something's gone wrong. Her gratified expression turns to a crease of confusion. "What's wrong? Why isn't it opening a portal?''

Jefferson's jaw tightens as he kneels by the hat; he's going to give himself one hell of a headache if he keeps this up, but it's hard to be around Regina and retain any semblance of repose. "The magic, it's not enough," he explains. "It can't go anywhere." It's both frustrating and somewhat fortunate; he certainly can't get left behind if they never manage to travel at all.

But Regina is piqued. "Well then, you've failed," she sighs in exasperation.

 _' I've failed, you evil harpy? Who was clever enough to trap herself here without enough magic to get home?'_ But he doesn't say that. What he says is, "Maybe not. There's enough magic to touch the other side, just not to get us there. But it might be enough to… reach through and retrieve something." He's done this before, the acquiring of small objects; it was half his trade, long, long ago – and so much less risky than actually traveling. The trick is, it requires such specific knowledge of where to direct the gap between the worlds – and an incredible ability to focus one's mind, to guide the hat's powers.

"I can bring something back?" She kneels as well, looking both perplexed and impressed.

"Is there an object that can help you?" he asks, leadingly. "Perhaps I can open it enough to… reach through and grab it. It would have to be small. Something that you can take with your hand. Is there anything like that that can help you?"

The confident spark lights in Regina's eyes, and Jefferson finds that far less reassuring than her wariness. "Yes," she says, regaining her center of control. "Yes, I believe there is."

"Then you need to direct me to the time and place where this object exists." He proffers the hat towards her, loathe to put it into her hands, but all too aware that this is the only way that she'll get what she wants – the only way to escape unwarranted retribution.

"How?"

She really ought to know enough about magic to figure this out on her own, and Jefferson wonders what it is whirling around in her mind that'd distracting her. "Think about it. Guide the hat."

Regina takes the brim in her hands, staring down into the silk-lined abyss. Her eyes go wide and a little glassy, and Jefferson knows she's remembering something, looking back through her own history and seeking out the one critical moment, the precise instance when her desired object can be found. Reaching through time is always trickier than simply moving from one world to the next, and Jefferson has never cared much for it; something about tampering with the fabric of the universe in that way has never sat quite right with him, never mind the incredible risk of it. 

The hat, being a hat, has no such qualms. It spurs into action, spinning more forcefully, and the purple haze grows thicker, windier, its whistles echoing off the tomb-like stone walls; Jefferson feels it tugging at him, asking him to come play. A little bubble of laughter bursts out of Regina. "Excellent," Jefferson says, though he can't quite muster any enthusiasm into his tone. "It appears to be working. Now what is it we're after?"

"An apple."

Jefferson blinks. _'She really is losing touch with that streak of originality that made her so formidable. What is it that has her unraveling?'_ No time to sort that out, though; she's staring expectantly at him, and so, with a gut-churning, slightly nauseating thrill, he focuses his attention on the hat, telling it to render up what she's asked for.

It pops up, rocketing in a straight vertical line, and Regina gasps, a sharp inhalation of delighted wonder. His fingers close around something hard and round: an apple, flawlessly red, with a single bite out of it; Jefferson doesn't want to think too hard about what moment in time he just dipped into. He holds it out for Regina's inspection: "Is this it?"

"Yes!" Regina exclaims, lurching forward to snatch it from him. It makes him wonder if she feels the same way about those apples as he does about the hat, helplessly drawn to them, addicted to their power. "Yes it is."

It's worth checking, at least, he figures, worth reminding her, at least, of what she promised but he's certain she doesn't mean to pay. "My daughter? My Grace?"

"First things first." She's back to her usual tone of voice, crisp as that apple. "The deal's not done. Not until I solve the next conundrum." He tilts his head, fairly sure he's held up as much of the bargain as can be expected – but Regina doesn't play fair, and he didn't expect her to. It's almost a relief, to have that confirmed. "How to get the savior to taste my forbidden fruit?"

She's rolling the apple in her hand, staring at it like she's never seen anything more beautiful. And for a moment, Jefferson sees it, flickering in the back of her eyes – the spark of madness, of obsession, something he knows all too well. He knows, too, what disaster indulging it leads to, and he'd be grateful for that, all too happy to watch her build her own pyre and burn on it, if he weren't so worried about the collateral damage.

"Well," Jefferson says, flipping the hat in his hand only half-consciously, such a familiar gesture, "Good luck with that." He suspects – he hopes – she would need it. Surely Emma would never be so foolish as to take food from such an affirmed enemy. _'Then again, she did take tea from you. Perhaps that taught her a lesson... but perhaps not.'_ And the rules are different here; poison isn't generally something most people of this world think to be on the alert for.

Regina moves to take the hat back, but Jefferson's faster, and his fingers clamp tightly around the brim. "I don't think so." He cocks his head to the side, smile curving slowly. "Let's call this a surety against your end of the deal, shall we?" She doesn't look happy, but she nods and gestures him back up the stairs.

They part in silence, each clearly absorbed by internal considerations. Regina has a hard look creasing her brow, all the focused determination of a battering ram.

Jefferson pauses at the end of the street, wondering what to do next. He's given Regina precisely as much help as she needed, and no more, and he just has to hope he hasn't done something irreversible with this devil's deal. Denying Regina, after all, was never really an option; she's never known how to accept "no" as an answer. And with Grace in the balance – no, he couldn't chance that. He has to have faith in Emma – faith that she won't be a fool, won't take the poisoned fruit, faith that she'll find some way to slip the noose.

But faith might not be enough, and Jefferson feels the prick of guilt. However much his hand was forced, if any ill does come of Regina's scheme, the responsibility falls on his head. He has to do something, take some action towards redemption for his complicity.

He holds two options in his head: two courses, two people. Warning Emma would seem the surest way to thwart Regina -- but then, he's not at all sure how favourably Emma would react to him turning up on her doorstep. She did see him get kicked out a window, after all, and even if she could get past his miraculous survival, he suspects she might still be holding a grudge for the drugging and kidnapping. Those conditions might make it a bit hard to convince her that he's trying to save her life. And getting clocked with another heavy object or defenestrated again would hardly help matters.

It would have to be the other, then. If anyone in this town would know what to do, how to put the brakes on this mess, it would be him. He's no more trustworthy than Regina, but from what Jefferson's witnessed, he seems, at least, to be working on Emma's side – and that's good enough for Jefferson. And so, still toting the leather hatbox, Jefferson starts down the path towards Gold's pawnshop.


End file.
